


The Bet

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Just Tooth-Rotting Fluff Really, Kissing, M/M, Miracles, Nobody Expects Thomas Aquinas, Post-Canon, just a little bit, soft, why is that not a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: The demon sighed.  Once the angel got an idea into his brain, only Archimedes’ crowbar could remove it. “Fine, fine, fine.  Stakes?”A fluffy-blond head tilted to one side, considering.  “Winner’s choice.  Within reason.Aziraphale and Crowley make a bet about who can go the longest without performing a miracle.Written for the Ineffable Con 2 zine, with much love to Bethany and Rachael, demonic co-hosts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 82





	The Bet

It started, as it usually did, with an argument. Not a _fight_ , it’s important to note; those were rare enough in the six thousand years before the Apocollapse, and non-existent in the aftermath, once the pair of them had managed to overcome their paralyzing anxiety and crippling sense of unworthiness sufficiently to admit that _yes_ , they were rather fond of each other, and _indeed_ , that fondness could be best expressed by sharing kisses (and all the _cetera_ that ensued) and by remaining at each other’s side day and night for the future both foreseeable and unimaginable.

No, this was more of their customary affectionate bickering, the kind that almost always bubbled up by the third bottle or so. Crowley had made a perfectly reasonable observation to the effect that if Aziraphale wished to pose as the Guardian of Humanity, he should be prepared actually to embrace some of the cultural and technological innovations that said species had come up with in the past century or so. The angel had rather huffily replied that perhaps if a certain demon pretended to claim a similar role, he could jolly well try experiencing the _inconveniences_ those same humans daily encountered.

“That’s rich, considering that _you_ haven’t so much as had a cup of tea go cold on you since Catherine of Braganza first brought the leaf to England!” sniped Crowley.

“ _Fine_ talk from a being who can’t even get dressed in the morning without using half a dozen miracles!” the light of his life retorted.

“Oi! Don’t talk to me about miracles! Not when we’re sitting inside a shop that has three times the interior footprint, _not_ to mention two extra floors, from the outside dimensions!”

“That’s only … _thrifty_ , considering the cost of London real estate. Not an _affectation_ , like someone who abuses temporal miracles to snap up whatever electronic gidget—

“—GADget, for Someone’s sake!”

“Fine, gadget, gazmo, what _ever_ , that won’t even be on the market until next year—”

“Which is _nothing_ like using one’s Heaven-bestowed Grace to _infiltrate_ the wine cellar at Le Gavroche—”

“Are you suggesting that I am incapable of functioning perfectly satisfactorily without employing miracles?” The angel put down his wine glass with an affronted gasp.

Crowley, painfully aware that he might have pushed too far, backtracked instantly. “Eh, angel, both of us probably are. I mean, it’s not like either of us have ever had to do _without_.”

“I beg your pardon! I have had my miracle allotment severely restricted _several_ times over the millennia,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Yeah, and how did _that_ go?” the demon’s snarky mouth uttered, before his alcohol-slowed brain had the chance to deliver the Cease-and-Desist warning letter.

The temperature in the shop suddenly dropped over ten degrees.

“I mean,” Crowley said, in a desperate effort to recover the fumble, “You’re terribly clever, angel, really, the most brilliant being I know, but … when it comes to practical matters you’re not always, eh … _adroit_.”

A thin veneer of ice crackled across the surface of his wine.

“Adroit.” Aziraphale’s tone could cut glass.

“Um. Capable?”

“ _Capable_.”

“Well. What I meant to say, was, er … _cunning._ ” The demon nodded desperately.

“Crowley. I assure you that I can be as adroit, capable, and cunning as the next supernatural entity with or _without_ miracles.”

“Course you can. Anyways, about pangolins …”

“And furthermore, to prove it, I propose a wager between us. To see who can manage the longest while abstaining from recourse to miracles.” Aziraphale sat back in his customary leather seat, arms folded stubbornly.

The demon sighed. Once the angel got an idea into his brain, only Archimedes’ crowbar could remove it. “Fine, fine, _fine_. Stakes?”

A fluffy-blond head tilted to one side, considering. “Winner’s choice. Within reason.”

“Ooooooh. Sounds _interesting_. Starting now?”

“Hmmm. How about at sunrise? We wouldn’t want …” Aziraphale looked away, his cheeks a delicate pink. “We want to make certain of, er, a _good night’s sleep_ beforehand. To, um, _prepare_.”

“Even _more_ interesting.” A sly smirk slid across Crowley’s face. “You’re on.”

~*O*~

Aziraphale smiled fondly as he gazed down at the sleeping demon curled against his side, slender arms and legs wrapped around his own sturdy torso and thighs. Normally the angel would be manifesting a faint glow at this point, to facilitate reading one of the stack of books piled up on his bedside table, or perhaps just indulging in the incomparable pleasure of the letting his eyes rest upon this, surely the most beautiful of all the Almighty’s creatures.

But this morning he restricted himself to the faint grey light of pre-dawn. Although he had privately conceded to himself hours ago that he had been perhaps a bit silly and pettish, he was still determined to win that bet. He had used some of Crowley’s sleeping hours to make sure that the pantry and wine cellar were fully provisioned, his favourite outfits freshly pressed, prime tickets for the forthcoming revival of _One Man, Two Guvnors_ beneath the miniature Bernini study for _Anima Dannata_ on his desk (some art historians claimed the sculptor had intended it as a self-portrait; but the angel knew perfectly well who the models for both that and the companion piece had been).

Part of it was the potential forfeit he could claim; Aziraphale had several _ideas_ about that, indeed, and he had to restrain an anticipatory wiggle so as to not disturb his somnolent bed-partner. More important, however, was the point to be made. He was woefully conscious that he had never been a particularly good angel, although he hoped that at least he had stayed true to Her general _intent_. But it was hard not to feel inadequate, sometimes, when he contemplated the clever subterfuges, the reckless improvisations, the overall dashing _style_ of his darling. There was a need, he thought, to demonstrate that there was more to himself than the bumbling, naïve, hopelessly out-of-date dullard, always in need of coddling and rescue, that he secretly feared Crowley would one day realise him to be.

Aziraphale wanted to prove that he could be competent. That he could be self _-_ sufficient. That he could be someone Crowley might be _proud_ to stand beside.

The sun was rising now, a red-gold disk, its rosy light slowly moving up from the end of the bed to illuminate the still-sleeping demon. Crowley grumbled, and shifted to bury his face into the angel’s be-tartaned pyjama-clad thigh.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He leaned down to kiss the freckles on one bony shoulder. “Good morning, my love.”

Serpentine eyes, more golden and glorious than the new-risen sun, blinked at him sleepily. “G’mornin’, angel.”

The next kiss landed on an auburn eyebrow.

Crowley made a half-hearted effort to bat him away. “Wha’ time izzit?”

Aziraphale captured and kissed the tips of his long elegant fingers. “Just after dawn, darling. I do apologise, but I simply will not permit you to win our wager by default by sleeping through it.”

“Wager?” The demon pulled a strand of copper hair out of his mouth, then seemed to focus. “Oh, the _bet_. Don’ bother. You already lost.” His eyes fluttered shut and he gave every indication of going back to sleep.

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Aziraphale straightened up in indignation. “I most certainly have not! I assure you, I have not yet performed a _single_ miracle!”

One corner of Crowley’s mouth curled up. “And yet, there you are.”

“Whatever is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Jus’ … Just look at you.” The demon waved his hand lazily to encompass the entirety of the angel. “Bein’ all soft an’ pretty an’ brave an’ good an’ wunnerful an’ _perfect_ an’ stuff. ‘S a bloody _miracle_ , that is.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale nearly melted. But he wasn’t going to let this wily fiend gain the upper hand so easily; so he continued, cheeks only a little pink, “You _know_ that’s not how miracles work.”

Now Crowley frowned. “Why not? What did … wossname, you know, Ox Boy, say made for a miracle?”

Six thousand years of acquaintance were barely sufficient for the angel to unravel the tangles of Crowley’s thought processes. “You mean Thomas Aquinas?”

“Yeah.” The demon yawned and, in apparent concession that some sort of conversation was tragically unavoidable, shifted a bit so that he was sitting at something approaching the vertical. “ _Your_ doctor, him, right?”

“Not exactly _mine_ …”

Crowley ignored this objection. “So. A miracle proper has to be outside the _capabilities_ of nature; outside the _pattern_ of nature; an’ outside _the expectations of those who wonder at it._ Right?”

“…yes?”

“Well, angels are by definition _super_ natural, so outside natural capabilities, check.” Crowley held up his index finger to emphasize the point.

Aziraphale sniffed. “So are demons, by that argument.”

“Fair ‘nough. ‘S only one of three, though.” The demon wriggled a little closer, nudging up against the angel’s side until Aziraphale was practically _forced_ to put his arm around him.

“Go on then, you ridiculous serpent.” The angel tried unsuccessfully to tuck a smile away.

“Right. We’ve already ‘stablished that you are completely outside the normal angelic pattern.” Crowley held up a second finger, then pressed them over Aziraphale’s mouth as he began to object. “You’re _better_. You care, really care about the world, and ever’body, ever’thing living on it. You ‘ _preciate_ it. You were ready to risk … well, don’ wanna think ‘bout it. But ask anyone Up There. They’ll tell you you’re _differen’_.” He smirked a little wickedly, and slid his fingers down to pinch that tempting lower lip. “Also, you are _way_ hotter ‘n any of ‘em.” He leaned in to follow up the pinch with a careful nip from sharp teeth.

Aziraphale hummed, eyelids fluttering shut. It seemed entirely possible for the next few minutes that all discussion of miracles (not to mention wagers) would be indefinitely postponed in favour of more pressing matters. But the angel was made of sterner (or at least more stubborn) material, and he could not keep from muttering against a demon’s very warm and agile tongue “You also, though.”

Crowley, who had temporarily forgotten what they had been talking about, strung together various consonants (plucked at random) to signal agreement.

The angel placed a hand between their faces. “My dearest, I mean to say …” (he squeaked and turned even pinker as the demon sucked at his sensitive palm) “no, that is, not _now_ , I mean …” he placed a placating kiss atop copper curls as the grumbling demon plopped his face into Aziraphale’s chest … “the point is, you are as much an anomaly among the denizens of Hell as I am of Heaven. You are, after all, deep down, just a bit …”

“Don’t sssssay it,” Crowley groaned. “Ruinsss the mood, angel.”

“ _Fiendish_ ,” Aziraphale corrected himself swiftly. “Quite, quite demonic, really. The wiliest of them all, I daresay.” He carded his fingers softly through his beloved’s hair. “But in an extremely, er, atypical fashion. Playing the long, the _very_ long game, as it were. Clever of you, I must admit.”

The demon, face still hidden, gave a pleased little grunt.

“Therefore,” the angel concluded, “if I am a miracle, you are every bit as much of one.”

“Ah-ah.” Crowley laced his fingers together across Aziraphale’s breastbone, and propped his chin on top. “You’re forgetting the third condition.”

“Yes, well. And _you_ forget that I’ve been on this Earth for a good bit more than six thousand years. If my mere existence was a source of _wonder_ and _awe_ , I think I’d have noticed it by now.”

The demon mumbled something into Aziraphale’s chest.

“I’m sorry, dearest? What was that?”

Crowley looked about ready to say something, then clearly changed his mind. Instead, he curled his hands into fists and dropped his chin back into place. “’S’wot you said. First thing this morning.”

“You mean _good morning_? Darling, the power to make a thing _good_ solely by the utterance of the Word is reserved to the Almighty alone. I cannot miracle goodness into a day simply by saying so.”

“Beg to differ,” his demon muttered, glancing away. “But I meant … t’other thing.”

_Oh_. The angel had no difficulty identifying the words in question, since they were first thing he said _every_ morning. “ _My love_. But that’s hardly miraculous.”

“Tis.” Crowley answered gruffly. Then, more clearly, “It _is_. Completely against the natural order of things. You know what I am, what I’ve done, where I belong. You know _me_. But still …”

“But still, I love you. Of _course_ I do, darling. _Because_ I know you.” Aziraphale smoothed gentle hands down the demon’s back, making him shiver, just a bit.

“’S’not … I mean, no one _else_ does. Not in Hell, not on Earth. Not even … It’s something that even _She_ can’t … won’t do. I can’t manage it _myself_ … not without your help.” He opened his fists, then circled his arms around the angel’s waist, laying his cheek against the curve of his belly. “If that isn’t a, a _wonder beyond expectations_ , I don’t know what is.”

“Oh, _beloved_.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, squeezing him as tightly as if he currently possessed the demon’s own serpentine coils. He summoned the full shining light of his ability to love (which, as an angel, was rather vast), then scraped up all the latent love that he could sense humming through their environs—the love of humans for their homes and families, the love of creatures for their mates and offspring, even the love of scuttling insects for the dust and dark, the love of weeds and flowers for the sun above—and then, greatly daring, tapped into his own internal Grace, the infinite mutual love eternally dancing between Creator and Creation; he gathered it together, all of it, into a mighty torrent of adoration and just _poured_ it into the gorgeous, splendid, astonishing demon in his arms, thundering through his very essence, washing across all the burnt and painful bits of him, seeking and filling all the empty cracks and crannies.

Crowley trembled and whined (just a little), clinging tight against the onslaught of Aziraphale’s love.

Aziraphale waited, petting and soothing, until the other relaxed again. “Dearest, I have simply no idea what you are talking about.”

Crowley laughed a little, blowing a puff of burnt cinnamon and cloves, with just a hint of morning brimstone.

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head once more. “However, I insist on pointing out that you _do_ love me as well. Or, at least, so you’ve said. Permit me to find that every bit as miraculous as …”

“Nope,” the demon interrupted, hoisting himself up on his elbows. “S’not the same at _all_. To love _you_ … that’s completely natural. Built into the very structure of the cosmos. Like, y’know, the moon and the tides. Iron and magnets. Chip butty and seagulls. Just the way it is.” He collapsed again, nuzzling at the angel’s collarbones. “S’not fair, really. Very hard on a demon, it is. But, y’know, can’t be helped.”

“Poor, put-upon fiend,” Aziraphale said tenderly. His breath stirred the messy coppery curls beneath his chin. “Terribly sorry about that.”

“Should be.”

“And,” Aziraphale went on, “I suppose I must concede defeat. I cannot prevail against your devilish employment of St. Thomas and his _Summa_. What do you wish to claim as your prize?

“ _Mmmph_.” Crowley snuggled in closer. “This works f’r me. Lemme stay just like this. F’rever.”

“Ah, well. If you _must_.” The angel wiggled into a slightly more comfortable position. “I feel compelled to note that _forever_ is a terribly long time. How about until lunch?”

“Fair ‘nough.” The demon’s voice was already scarcely audible. “But only ‘cause I’m a little hungry myself.”

“Oh, gracious, my own. That _is_ a miracle.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Bernini:  
> Anima Dannata: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damned_Soul_(Bernini)#/media/File:Bernini_-_Damned_Soul.jpg  
> Anima Beata: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blessed_Soul_(Bernini)#/media/File:Blessed_Soul_by_Bernini.jpg
> 
> Crowley’s summation is a woeful oversimplification of the teachings of Thomas Aquinas (a.k.a “the Angelic Doctor” and “the Dumb Ox”) on miracles (see http://inters.org/Aquinas-Theology-Miracles for just a sample), as both he and his beloved would have been well aware.  
> However, if you believe that even Aziraphale would have chosen this particular moment to delve into Scholasticism, I think you’ve got the wrong angel.


End file.
